The Understudy: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

taking hold. He was certainly coughing up a storm tonight. But was he any good? He was, it had to be admitted, almost supernaturally handsome—a poster face, the kind that looks equally at home protruding from a suit of armor, or a toga, or a space suit; feminine without being effeminate, masculine without being coarse, but with something cruel about it too, something hard about the eyes and mouth, the kind of face that could play a romantic lead or a strangely appealing Nazi. Onstage, Lord Byron solemnly intoned, “We’ll Go No More A-roving,” and Stephen watched with an uncomfortable but all-too-familiar mix of professional admiration, and a low, dull throb of envy in the pit of his stomach.
    Then the red light in the wings changed to green, his cue to enter, and Stephen rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat and stepped out onto the stage. There was a time when walking onstage in front of a theater full of people might have given him a little thrill, but, frankly, this late into a long run, there was more adrenaline in trying to cross Shaftesbury Avenue. Besides, the lighting was deliberately murky, there was a lot of dry ice, he was a very, very long way upstage, and he was wearing a full face mask. Still, if a job’s worth doing…
    Think ghostly, he told himself. My motivation is to open the door in a ghostly manner.
    He did so, then made a deep, somber bow as Josh turned and walked past him, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
    Now close the door, but not too fast,
he thought, and slowly closed the door. He stood perfectly still as the stage lights faded on a slow ten count, then as soon as the applause began, turned and walked swiftly offstage, so as not to get in Josh’s way. And that was it—walk on (ghostly), open door (slowly), bow (somberly), close door (slowly), walk off (quickly). Room for interpretation was slight. An old theatrical saying has it that there is no such thing as a small part. This was that small part.
    As always Josh Harper was waiting in the wings, eyes wide with elation, grinning and sweating like an action hero.
    “Hey, Stevearoony, mate,” he shouted above the roar of the audience, dropping into his natural voice, a soft, semiauthentic cockney. This was another of Josh’s not entirely endearing qualities—a congenital inability to call anyone by their chosen name, so that Donna became “The Madonnster,” Michael the DSM became “Mickey the Big D,” Maxine was “Maximillius.” At some point Stephen had been designated “Stevearoony,” “The Stevester,” “Bullitt” or, perhaps most annoying of all, “Stephanie.” There seemed every possibility that if Josh were to meet, say, the Dalai Lama or Nelson Mandela, that he would address them as the Dalaroony Lamster and Nelsony Mandoly. And they probably wouldn’t mind.
    “…
really
sorry about getting your hopes up earlier, Steve. You know, about going on.”
    “Oh, that’s okay, Josh. Nature of the job…”
    “More! More! Encore!” shouted the audience. Maxine was onstage, taking a token solo bow, but it was Josh they were screaming for.
    “No, it’s not okay, Steve, it’s fuckin’ unforgivable, and unprofessional too.” He grabbed Stephen tight by the shoulder. “Listen, just to make it up to you, what are you doing Sunday night?”
    “Nothing. Why?”
    “It’s just I’m having this big party, and I wondered if you were available?”
    “More! More! Bravo!”
    “Bear with us a sec, will you?” Josh sighed, then almost reluctantly, as if bowing to rapturous applause were a chore, like taking the bins out, he turned, executed a gymnastic little hop-and-skip and scampered from the wings back out into the burning white light of the stage. Stephen watched as Josh flopped forward from the waist, and hung there, head and hands dangling limply to the floor, as if to emphasize just how completely and utterly ex-
haust
-ing the whole damn thing had been. But Stephen’s mind was elsewhere. A party. Josh Harper’s